Simplified Rococo Hypocrisy on a Picnic

Whenever the pace
Of the incoming
Slackens, memory

Springs into action.
Haven’t you noticed
How most thoughts amount

To entertainment
For the troubled self?
Even dread’s a show

Seizing attention
With macabre puppets,
Since horror’s better

Than boredom to mind.
Poor mind. The dullest
Moments are down deep

More richly detailed
Than memory’s props,
Garish collages,

And reused costumes.
That’s all of future,
All of fantasy,

And yet you turn back
To start rummaging
Memory’s attic

For more mummery
Of what might happen
The very instant

Your attention flags,
Bored with the moment,
With the nuances

Of, for instance,
A drive down the road
You drive every day.

You defend yourself—
Hey! Of course! It’s dull!
The same every day!

And I’ve got so much
I should think about,
So much on my plate,

And won’t it be good
To get everything
Done, and can’t you see

Me living the life
I should be living,
And what if I don’t

Get these ducks lined up,
And that set up done?
All done would be great.

Alright. No lectures
Then—you’ve had enough
Ambitious people

Haranguing others
About how to live
In the blissful now.

It’s not that the now
Is so damned blissful.
It’s just that it’s strange

That the world’s details
Bore you if they don’t
End up as threadbare

Bits of old costumes
The mind wears to play
The set narratives,

The three or four tales
It can’t help but stage.
No one dares to say

Imagination
Is a poorer place
To spend your hours in

Than the dullest, most
Quotidian hour
You ran away from.

You might want to try
To see if you can
Remain nonhuman

Enough not to need
To hide in tired thoughts,
When you could be free.